


They Can't Take That Away From Me

by herestolookingatyou



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Alternate History, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Coming of Age, Culture, F/M, Original Character-centric, Patriotism, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, SCIENCE!, War, Women Being Awesome, World War II, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24232246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herestolookingatyou/pseuds/herestolookingatyou
Summary: “My father says you’re an engineer.”“I’m so much more than that, kid,” Howard finishes his cigarette, then flicks it to the floor and toes it, mirroring her stance over the railing and looking out over the city with her. “I’m the future. Everything you’re looking at right now, I’m gonna make bigger and better. More durable.”“I rather like how it is now,” Rose counters with a frown. “It’s unlike anything else in the world, so singular and full of life. It’s kind of… magical.”“That’s very poetic,” it's a compliment and an accusation all at once.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Peggy Carter & Howard Stark, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 9





	1. Somewhere Over the Rainbow

When she was a little girl, she dreamed that her life would be exactly as it was predicted it would be.

She’d go from being her entitled father’s lovely, socialite daughter, to being her entitled husband’s lovely, socialite wife. She would want for nothing and receive everything, she would doubt little and smile very much. Her days would pass in some meaningless version of purpose as she plays the enterprising young heiress.

It wasn’t until her tenth birthday that she began to suspect there were some logistical pitfalls in the road set before her.

See, the trouble with dreams is that, if one dreamed correctly, they are born from great, wild fancies and imagination. Doing things correctly was something she excelled at from an early age, so naturally, imagination came in spades and it led not only to dreaming, but observation and pondering. And then, one day she found herself with so many unanswered questions, that quite organically, she began to wonder at the world she was exposed to. Her conclusion was that there was much more to the universe than she could possibly dream up.

This, in turn, led to the rather obvious decision that if there wasn’t much of the world that she could fathom, then it followed that it was fathomless that she should blindly follow the path set before her. Just because her future had been planned by her family and their social constructs, didn’t necessarily mean she had to adhere to it.

Even if it was what she knew best.

“One never knows, Margaret, I may discover so much more on my own!” She told her surly maid as the lithe young woman brushed her curls into something passing as fashionable.

“One never knows,” Margaret answered evenly, the expression on her face reading that one can, however, very much doubt it.

Julius was much more responsive, as she always knew he would be. There was something very steadfast about the butler. He’s more of an overseeing, omnipotent personal instructor than a butler, and at times he could be incredibly intimidating, but he also listened attentively and answered seriously. Most importantly, his no-nonsense manner lent itself nicely to her overly curious nature.

“Why won’t you and Margaret and Hattie eat supper with us?”

“Because that would be completely inappropriate,” Julius explained patiently.

“What makes it inappropriate?” she asked between bites of her lunch, jam sticking unseemly between her fingers as it oozed out the sides of her sandwich.

She always liked her sandwiches best when they were full to bursting.

“Those employed by the family are not a part of the family. There is a structure and tradition to be upheld.”

“You mean, like Christmas is a tradition that Nana requires us to attend church for?” Her water glass was all sticky now, too, and she wrinkles her nose as she sets it back on the table.

“Like Nana requiring that we attend church on Christmas,” Julius corrected, the light glinting off the silverware he was polishing. “So far as tradition being a series of repeated events which have grown to be a part of accepted behaviours, then yes, it is rather the same.”

She waits a moment to finish chewing, a young lady never speaks with her mouth full. That is, a young lady nibbles lightly in case she should be expected to speak, but she’s too hungry for nibbling.

“Who decided to accept these traditions? I never did. I rather prefer eating with you than Mother. She glares when I fidget. And so does Nana. And church! Oh, church is such a bore.”

“But that is the thing with tradition, it is upheld regardless of personal belief.”

“Salomon told me it’s his tradition not to go to church. How come he has different traditions than I do?”

Salomon, her eleven year old cousin, had indeed told her so, in this very room. They had snuck inside while playing cops and robbers in order to find something valuable to steal in the name of realistic enactments. Salomon had seen the prayer book Nana had given her last year and the conversation had been introduced.

“Every family, every society, every era decides upon different standards of what is upheld. Master Salomon is Jewish, his faith and society uphold different traditions.”

“So? I’m not Christian. Mother says she’s Jewish too, so that makes me Jewish according to Salamon. Daniel said so, too.”

She had asked her oldest brother directly following the visit, pounding on his study door as the dust settled behind Salomon’s car on his way home. There was dirt on her cheek and Lindsey still had one of her hair ribbons from when he’d tried to catch her as any cop worth his salt should, and instead only ruined her left plait. But she needed answers more than she wanted a change of clothes, so she didn’t bother getting cleaned up first.

Daniel had been hesitant, and had told her to ask their father for the details, that such matters as faith and religion were complicated at best and nuanced at worst.

Next time, she’d ask Billy instead, she decided. Billy never hesitated in expressing his opinions. It’s just a matter of catching him while he’s available.

“That is a question best addressed to your father,” Julius told her calmly, and the finality in his tone meant she should finish her meal and leave that line of question for another day.

“Does Father determine what tradition is for us?”

“In a manner of speaking. But there are many traditions which date back hundreds of years, put into practice by your great-great-great ancestors.”

That was an awfully long time to uphold tradition. It seemed silly, too, that she couldn’t really direct her curious nature towards enlightenment, as everyone was intent on some other version of the truth.

From there was born the realization that curiosity was an insatiable mistress, growing greater with every scrap of knowledge it consumed, contradicting or not. It was a never ending line of discovery after discovery, question after question, ponder after ponder and it all ended in someone directing her elsewhere or deflecting with the certainty that tradition was not to be contemplated.

It was really too bad that Father was a modern thinking man, even with all his traditional bits. As the youngest of three sons to an old, prominent and established New York family, Richard Saxby had always been an inquiring, wondering soul. And although it may have been discouraged in his youth, due to age and circumstance, Father was free to do as he pleased. He enjoyed forward thinking men, the company of philosophers, scientists and pioneers much preferred over vicars, priests and old, stuffy men in university clubs. It was equally unfortunate that Mother, the beautiful daughter of Hungarian immigrants, had a taste for that which was most fashionable and modern. Mother preferred traveling and cultural exploration to sitting room talk and socialite parties thrown by air-headed, entitled women with no knowledge of the world. Even more unlucky was that despite her parents finding each other and quietly conflicting with what tradition and society demanded of them through private and acceptable mediums, the same wouldn't be said for their youngest daughter.

Instead, she found herself unable to be placated by smaller acts of rebellion against the masses, unsatisfied with upholding tradition in public while quietly exploring all the rest that the world had to offer. She started to imagine what she could discover if tradition was not her director. She dreamed of more than the expected.

On her tenth birthday, when Julius was absent from her birthday celebrations due to tradition, she began to ponder what purpose it served. To that extent, what was the definition of purpose if everything she had been taught held it was in direct opposition with what she had been quietly conditioned to acknowledge as private purpose.

And so it was that a little girl began to dream outside the realm of a perfectly ordinary life in which she would go from being her entitled father’s lovely, socialite daughter, to being her entitled husband’s lovely, socialite wife, and instead, dreamed of all she had yet to discover, to the boundless, great unknown which would lead her everywhere but where she was expected to go.

It takes her a good while longer to stop dreaming about it and start living it.


	2. That's, uh, The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

She read a biography on Elizabeth Blackwell for school. 

As a well established all-girls conservatory for the nation’s most elite young ladies, it prided itself in an extensive and comprehensive education. It was only natural that they include a course in the great women throughout history. 

It was no surprise when many of her classmates chose historic characters like Nefertiti, Cleopatra and Queen Elizabeth. The hype over Egyptian culture was still in full swing, no matter how bourgeoisie Mother and her fashionable continental friend insisted the style had become and every twelve year old girl spent hours romanticizing the great British monarch. 

At least Leslie St. John had the good taste to choose Mary Queen of Scots. 

She decided to ask Daniel whom he would consider an influential and noteworthy female power.

“Do you mean scientifically, philosophically or politically?” He asked, his voice sounding a little tinny over the phone line. 

She still marveled at being able to talk to him all the way in Princeton. Abigail Seure didn’t even have access to a telephone that called as far as another state and she was part Vanderwood on her mother’s aunt’s side.

“It will depend on what you consider noteworthy, too.”

“Scientifically,” she decided with certainty, not letting on that she hadn’t even considered the question until he’d posed it. “But it can’t be Florence Nightingale because Shaina did her report on her and Madam LeRoy will think I’m unimaginative.”

Her biggest frustration was always being compared to her older sister, Shaina. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Shaina ever so much, it was only that it was very hard growing up in Shaina’s perfect shadow.

Daniel laughed, and she thought his laugh had the quality of a person startled into amusement, as if he never expected to laugh but couldn’t quite seem to help it.

“No one would ever accuse you of that, flower, no one.” He paused, contemplating. “Well, if you want science, and you want medicine, I would say Elizabeth Blackwell. She’d make a swell study and there’s a good deal of material for you to write on.”

The words were like a magic spell. 

From the moment she’d heard the name Elizabeth Blackwell, it was as if the stars themselves had realigned and the course of nature had reversed itself. And despite what Lindsey, Billy and Shaina had to say on the matter, it wasn’t simply because Daniel had suggested she look into the first female physician, either. It was a natural born fascination, brought about by her insatiable thirst for adventure and her respect for women who stood against the tide of time and ushered in a new way of thinking. 

No one challenged tradition the way women like Elizabeth Blackwell did.

From that moment onward, everything she touched had a scientific background. The only way to really explore the world was with the undiluted scientific approach of logic and reason, tested and used by scientists and doctors worldwide. If she wanted to be a woman who stood against the tide of time, she would have to learn to be more like Elizabeth Blackwell and the scientist's Father was constantly having round for dinner. 

Everything in life was to be broken down to its scientific sum.

“Did you know that silver is a chemical element  which exhibits the highest electrical conductivity, thermal conductivity, and reflectivity of any metal?” She told Lindsey during dinner.

Lindsey made a face, spitting his peas into his napkin despite Mother’s glares. “Did you know that my new fountain pen is gold? It’ll hurt more when I throw it at you.”

When Salomon started asking for more sugar in his coffee one Sunday afternoon, she informed him without any hesitation that the effects of sugar on his young body would be felt in catharsis and the loss of a healthy appetite, both of which were vital for their planned game of Explorers and Indians. They had the entire kitchen to explore before Lindsey caught up to them, after all.

Julius received a lecture on the chemical reaction of starching powder on human skin and then he was subjected to her extensive understanding of medicinal herbs while he tended to the herb gardens. 

It was anyone’s guess as to whether she was unaware of everyone else’s attempts to dissuade her from her new lifestyle or simply ignoring them in an effort to stand against the tide.

There was one person, however, who took an entirely different, more enlightened, approach. 

Understanding that young ladies were prone to temporary flights of fancy, and that her daughter’s romantic nature would never truly yield to cold, straightforward logic, Mother chose to expose her to the various systematic aspects found in fashion. Patterns, angles, cuts, and designs required both a scientific approach and an artistic mind in order to succeed. It was a lucky thing her family owned one of the greatest fashion houses in New York. Mother took full advantage, and brought her to the Saxby design studio every Thursday night for two months straight, allowing the better part of autumn to pass as an educational experiment. 

By the time December managed to sweep it’s wintery blanket over New York, she was well versed in the importance of exact measurements, print study and which angles flattered which cuts. No longer was everything a scientific study, instead it was a blank canvas awaiting the color and artistry her imagination and creativity could inspire.

Elizabeth Blackwell, however, had changed her. She had been exposed to a whole new way of exploring the universe, and Mother’s attempt to assuage this odd stage by integrating a creative and methodical approach to this new, logistical worldview left its mark on the younger Saxby.

And although she did indeed want to revolutionize the modern scientific method and a woman’s place in it, she did miss pondering and wondering and imagining something awful. So it was settled, she didn’t have to be Elizabeth Blackwell, she only needed to try and achieve something as meaningful as Elizabeth Blackwell did. And she'd do it her own way, too.

Years later, she’d look back and think this may have been the moment her story began.


	3. Maybe Not Today, Maybe Not Tomorrow

Mr. Matthew Brenner was just as much a novelty to her as he was to her older sister Shaina. Well, that is to say, he was fascinating and different and when Billy attempted to goad her during a Sunday dinner party, Mr. Brenner, the handsome twenty-something-year-old Father’s brought around for his latest dinner party, seemed to take a genuine interest in what she had to say. 

It didn't hurt that he was a truly beautiful man, either.

“I’d say he’s got more interest in Shaina’s smile than in anything you have to say, don’t fool yourself, Rose,” Lindsey denoted, still sulking because Mother took his wine glass away.

“Her smile  _ is _ rather like a ray of sunshine,” Rose said wistfully, fully aware that her sister won all the best features in the genetic lottery.

Shaina was what one would describe as a ‘universal beauty’. All petite, willowy limbs, freely given smiles, eyes that appeared perpetually innocent with their width and wispy lashes, and the laugh of an angel. She gave every and all Hollywood glamour spreads a run for their money and was always incredibly even-tempered in the process. Unlike Rose, Shaina always knew what to say and do, no matter the situation. 

How could Rose ever fault someone for finding Shaina enchanting? If anything, it was only natural a young man from Hollywood, Florida should stare longingly at witty, graceful Shaina and only converse casually with quirky, gangly Rose.

By the looks of things, Shaina found the young entertainment lawyer fascinating as well. Rose kept turning to find her sister sneaking glances and smiling privately into her champagne glass. Shaina held conversation with everyone in the room, an added measure of elegance pervading her every gesture, she laughed at all of Mr. Brenner’s jokes and pretended that his stories of Myrna Loy and William Powell weren’t all that impressive. 

After all, wasn’t everyone present privy to various encounters with the most elite and admired men and women of the generation?

“Mr. Saxby tells me you’ve somewhat of a revolutionary approach to legislature,” Mr. Blanshard began during the entrée. “I wonder what that means, seeing as you affiliate yourself primarily with media law.”

Mr. Brenner placed his fork precisely at five o’clock before nodding deliberately, “Well, with the way the average American is likely to consume information today as opposed to, say, a century ago, wouldn’t you say there is a need for progress in the field? Reformation, at the very least.”

“If you’re referring to the film censorship, films are commerce, not art. Or haven’t you heard?” Rose supplied drily before she could stop herself. At Mother’s admonishing look and Father’s inquisitive stare, she squirmed, fiddling with the stitching on one of Mother’s monogrammed linen napkins. “That is, so the courts have been rumored to say.”

There was a tense silence that seemed to permeate through the group until Paul Blanshard and Father glanced at one another and laughed. And they laughed and laughed and laughed, clapping hands over the tabletop in big, shaking ‘thumps’, cheeks aching, until the entire room had dissolved into big, heaving peels of good humor.

“You’re really quite the precocious one, aren’t you, dearest Rose?” Julia Blanshard surmised, the corners of her lips ticking up mischievously. 

“You’re hardly off the mark,” Mr. Brenner grinned, “that’s exactly the sort of place to start a revolution.”

“Can you just imagine what a world without proper film censorship would be like? Libel and heresy would plague the nation!” Nana seemed just about ready to spit by the end of her little tirade.

Mrs. Blanshard tilted her head sideways, meeting her husband's bright gaze, “And freedom of belief and expression would be a bad thing, Madam?”

“The truth will always be the truth. If what a person preaches is true and just, it’s unlikely that said person would have to worry about being taken for falsehood or insufficiency,” Brenner provided calmly, and there was something in his tone that called to Rose.

There was simplicity in an idealistic attitude, and idealism, Rose was quickly beginning to suspect, was the most comfortable mode of existence for her.

And so, as she was quite taken with Mr. Matthew Brenner and his idealistic persuasions, Julius was subjected to an hour long, one-sided deliberation on the topic the next morning. There were so many inquiries to make, after all, if one were to view the world through the lens of truth and justice. 

Billy found her in the gardens, huddled into her heavy winter coat and slippers. Rose has been pestering Julius with the million and one questions on her mind, such as if poverty would exist if there were morality in all the world's heart or if two people were to believe in the unimaginable, would there now be a shared truth between them or simply a delusional conspiracy.

“How long’s this been going on?” Her brother interrupted, facing Julius completely and, in Rose’s opinion, rudely ignoring her.

“Excuse me, Billy, I’m not doing anything-”

“Entirely too long, if I’m being candid.”

Rose gasped, betrayed, “Julius!”

Still disregarding her outrage, Billy surveyed the situation with calm, bottomless blue eyes and then finally nodded, “Right, up you get, Rosiloo. You’re coming with me.”

“Oh I am, am I? And who, pray tell, has the reigning authority on where I do and do not go? Certainly not you- oh, no, no, no, stop!” 

Billy, who’d also inherited their father’s impressive height, as well as his substantial and solid physique, had gone and picked her right up over his shoulder before toting her into the house. 

“You were saying?”

“You wretched, abominable man! I’m not even  _ dressed _ for any sort of social interaction, much less a daytime outing to god knows where! Are you even listening to me? Put me down, you oaf!”

“Oh, enough with the hysterics, it’ll be good for you,” he replied heartily as they passed through the library.

“Shaina, Lindsey, anyone! Help! I’ve been abducted by an absolute baboon! Father, I’m being made off with by a complete heathen in your own home!” She shouted as loud as her voice can carry, which was rather substantial, considering the cool marble accenting in the foyer. “Help!”

Billy only laughed at her outrage, dropping her into the passenger seat of his new Lincoln. He tweaked her nose playfully when he finished locking them in and she returned the favor by batting at his hands. Hard. Then she turned and stubbornly kept her gaze on the windshield as Billy eased them off the property and onto the gravel road. 

“Well?” Rose demanded after a failed attempt at silence. “Where are you taking me, then?”

Billy chuckled, “Five whole minutes of quiet, all time record there, flower. Well done, you.”

“I will hit you, Billy, so help me god, I will!”

“I’m sure you would, if you had the heart for it. As it stands, you’ve the heart of an artist, not a fighter. I’m hardly concerned.”

“Oh!” She gaped, incensed. “I have the heart of a warrior inside me, Billy. I do! And one of these days, you’ll find out the hard way and we’ll see who’s concerned then.”

He whistled cheerily at this, turning onto the main road, “Brooklyn.”

“Hardly, they couldn’t care less for your well being.”

“Hilarious, Rosiloo, but I meant our destination. We’re going to Brooklyn.” Billy glanced over, grinning in the face of her wide eyed wonder. “I thought you’d appreciate seeing someone else's truth for a change. Get to the heart of it. See what the struggle really looks like.”

Rose smiled at this, “You’re inner reporter is showing, brother dearest.”

“Journalist, “ he corrected, just as she knew he would.

“Potay-to, Potah-to.”

He grumbled at this, shaking his head in good humor.

And so, to Brooklyn they went, bickering the whole way there. Billy parked in front of a tiny hole in the wall in Flatbush, and proceeded to purchase what may very well be the best sandwich she ever had. 

The people, the ambiance, all of it called Rose’s attention. Although it was all faded and bordering on depressing, there was a spark of vitality and necessity that was simple in its truth. She felt very much at odds with the environment, her in her cashmere, fur trimmed sweater and bright, fashionably colored winter gloves, and everyone else in what she considered to be various shades of grey. It hardly made her feel less enchanted with this world, in this borough so different from her own. 

The sharp edges and fast pace of life filled her with a sort of envy she’d never had before. Here, a person was what they made of themselves, no more, no less. It may be a struggle every day, but it was an honest one. Where she came from, there was deceit and an unparalleled need to keep tight to the ways of old, regardless of its effect on life. 

Rose wondered what reform looked like, what it tasted like. If reform was, really and truly, good for everyone or if reform only served to continuously prioritize one group of persons over another.

“That would be the rub, wouldn’t it?” Billy nodded, his eyes alight with approval and fingers steadily knotting the napkins. “Sometimes we need to set aside what benefits us in order to better serve those around us.”

She contemplated this, eyes firmly on his coffee cup as her brow creased in wonder. 

Was there always sacrifice before change, was that simply the way it was or had they, as mankind, made a world where change could only be accepted if someone, somewhere, abdicated on some level. And if so, whoever conceded wouldn’t be gaining much beyond the knowledge that in their lifetime, they achieved something truly for someone other than themselves. 

“Sounds awfully disheartening, if also very virtuous,” she said at last, mind whirling in debate. 

Julius put it differently, in his own way, as he set down her bedtime tea over the mahogany side table. He waited a moment, quietly, as she settled herself into the plush armchair Mother had insisted to be the height of decorative sophistication last January, and then he told Rose what she thought maybe Matthew and Billy had been trying to say all along.

“Sometimes, Miss Rose, we come to a crossroads in our lives and we must acknowledge that what is right for me and right for you are two different things. The only way to keep the balance between this sort of disparity is to respect one another's differences, accept them as equal, and simply do what we must to be fair and just when we come to our judgement day.”

“I don’t know if I believe in a judgement day, Julius,” she told him quietly, the words soft and hesitant the way secrets often are. Her heart pounded so quickly with each syllable that she almost felt as if she should take them back, snatch them from the air and keep them hidden deep inside her. But she had the heart of a warrior, and so she bravely, if still hesitantly, met his eyes. “I don't know if I believe in any one thing over another.”

And Julius, perceptive, caring, unflappable Julius, simply inclined his head, “I cannot tell you what to believe in, Miss Rose. Some spend a lifetime loyal to one set of beliefs and some believe in hundreds of different things before they reach their end. But I can say that we all have a judgement day. We may even have many, regardless of personal belief.”

“And what, the only way to not be found wanting is to accept everything and never stand firm by any one thing?”

“No, accept that there is more, that there are hundreds of sides to every story, to every coin, to every truth. But a story will always be a story, a coin will always hold the same value no matter which side it shows, and the truth will always be the truth.”

Horrified at the terrible mess of it all, Rose throws her biscuit back onto the tray and cries, “But that’s no help at all, Julius!”

Smiling, he gathered up her tray, “What I’m saying, Miss, is that all we can do is live our lives choosing what we believe and what we are and aren’t willing to sacrifice when we arrive at that crossroad.”

After much tossing and turning, Rose fell asleep that night with the makings of a new outlook and the beginnings of a suspicion. Ultimately, it all came down to one simple query: could she, Rose Saxby, be who she wanted to be, simply because she wanted it? Could she progress, reform, revise and believe that she however she wanted, and still stand proud on her judgement day as the person she was and not the person she ought to have been?

Would she be able to stand at her crossroads and decide her own fate, simply because it was the right choice for her?

Rose could achieve a triumphant crossroads moment, if she let the truth guide her. Because even if there were millions of truths, the truth  _ was  _ still the truth.

  
Now all Rose needed to figure out, was what _her_ truth would be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess thing are moving along, then? Next up, Howard Stark.  
> I need sleep first.  
> Stay safe, sending all the love.


	4. Who Put That Bright Idea in Your Head?

Rose almost gets sent away for high school. 

She gets into a big row with Nana over religion and whether being a good person will ever be better than being a devout Christian. There is plenty of shouting from Nana, dramatic tears from Rose and uncomfortable reprimands from Mother. 

Mother, who’s never really gotten along with Nana since the day they met, is constantly finding herself at fault with Nana for Rose and her wild speeches on things like equality and conformity. This time proves to be no exception. What is different, however, is the severity of Nana’s displeasure and the intensity of Mother’s disapproval. 

Rose supposed she shouldn’t have brought religion into the conversation.

Nana angrily insists that a good tanning wouldn’t be enough for Rose’s childish impotence, that more severe actions must be taken before it’s too late and much to her horror, this time, Mother agreed.

“You have to learn how to be a young lady, Rose,” Mother says calmly, and determined to see it through, she begins researching appropriate bounding schools. 

“You can’t be serious!” Rose despairs when brochures for an elite blurring school gets passed around during breakfast. “Shaina didn’t go away until finishing school! You can’t make me go, you just can’t. What would I even do, so far away from everyone and everything I love?”

“You’ll find new things to love,” says Mother easily, well-versed in her daughter’s effusive nature. “And It’s high time you learned to be a lady.”

“I’m not old enough to be a lady!”

“You are being ridiculous,” Shaina suggests gently, “you’ve had quite a run on childhood already, no need to delay the inevitable.”

“Can anyone imagine this one at Porters?” Lindsey laughs obnoxiously. “Reciting King Lear during every lesson and having her knuckles rapped when she uses the wrong spoon!”

Rose exclaims loudly at this, throwing her own spoon across the table in her distress. Mother simply reaches over and places it neatly over Rose’s napkin without much thought. 

“Now, Lindsey, don’t tease your sister. I’m sure she’ll get on just fine after the first few weeks.”

Rose can’t stop the tears from falling now, imagining breakfast, lunch and supper every day with strange girls who care more for Harvard boys they can marry than Mien van Wulfften Palthe’s ongoing fight for peace. She’s met Porter girls here and there, and that’s hardly a recommendation. If they send her away to a prep school, it will just be a glorified, long-suffering finishing school experience and she’ll  _ never  _ get a chance to go to college or learn advanced calculus or speak more than a passing sentence with any real pioneers of thought and science.

“You couldn’t possibly!” she cries, the very thought making her ill. “It would be a disaster and a complete violation of human decency!”

“Oh, chin up,” Father says, and he’s fighting a smile at the scene she’s making. “No one’s sending you away just yet, Rosiloo. Besides, Miss Porter’s would never take you and I’m not about to give up my best girl in any hurry, am I?”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, she’s out of her seat and hugging him so hard that his orange juice knocks over onto his eggs and he laughs. 

And so a compromise is made. On the condition that she begin to approach life with more reserve and common sense, Rose will attend Brearley, here in the city, just as Shaina had, and they would revisit prep school in another year’s time. 

Nana isn’t much pleased with the arrangement, but she’s never really pleased with anything. Rose can’t remember a time when she isn’t going on about the lack of sense and decorum in this house, or how Father is always allowing uncultured riffraff into their lives, or Mother, with all those homosexuals and disgraced friends, are doing the work of the devil in her design studio. 

For her part, Rose tries very hard to be as grown up as possible. It’s a difficult challenge, and she’s really very happy to keep going as she is, but the threat of losing this beautiful life of hers is more than incentive enough. 

After much study and comprehensive revision on what exactly it means to behave like an adult, she begins to speak with heightened diction and slower tones, and attempts to constantly display some expression of solemnity during every conversation.

“I’m fitting right in,” Rose tells Julius gravely one morning, when he finds her waiting stiffly for Mother at the foot of the stairs. 

She’d let Margret finish brushing her hair for a change, and every button is done up exactly right. Even her pleats are immaculate, and that is no small miracle.

Julius clears his throat, face impassive, “Yes, Miss Rose. You certainly are. But might I suggest matching footwear, perhaps?”

She is so preoccupied with appearing perfectly ladylike, she doesn’t notice she’s wearing two different colored shoes.

It’s a long summer, and even longer autumn, but every time Rose thinks she can’t do this anymore, any time she suspects she’s made yet another mockery of decorum and graciousness, she only has to look at Father’s grin at dinnertime, or Julius’s quiet nod when he picks her up from school to know it will be worthwhile. And anytime she slips up, she only needs to take a peak at one of the beautiful advanced algebra texts Daniel gifts her one weekend to remember what this all means to her.

Still, she couldn’t be happier than when Father announced that despite Nana’s annual protest, they would indeed be spending the winter holidays in their upstate home, with every eccentric guest he could manage to invite.

The night before they head out with their party of sixteen, Rose doesn’t think she’ll get a wink of sleep, she’s so excited for the trip. Instead, when all goes quiet and the only sounds trailing through the hallways of the Saxby family’s city home are the chimes of distant clocks and the rustling winter air, she throws off her covers, grabs a coat and tiptoes to one of the deserted balconies.

It’s been awhile since she’s last seen the city lights, awake and thriving when the rest of the world sleeps, and she can’t help but sigh happily, dropping her chin to rest on her fist, arm propped over the metal banister as dark hair curls into her neck.

New York, the city that never sleeps, and what a beauty it is indeed.

Who needs Hollywood glamour with all of this around, she wants to ask the world.

She doesn’t even feel guilty for evading sleep behind her parents back, silently content in her nightgown and winter coat, feet bare as she studies the hum and flash beyond this balcony, everything that makes New York City run. The science – biologists, chemists, engineers, and mechanics create a melody of life for society and its individuals – workers, socialites, and scholars, employees, employers, and the unemployed, all bleeding into this very image, keeping her up all night.

Rose leans over the railing, huddling close against the chilled winter air, and dreams with her eyes wide open, enamored with the world surrounding her. Of the people in it and the things they do, of the creations which are surely being brought into existence this very instant, she’s just sure of it. She imagines the swelling sounds of jazz bands and swing orchestra’s filling the night air, the heavy smell of hot dog vending stands and women’s perfume.

It's hours before she’s interrupted.

“Huh. You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

She is startled back into reality, blinking as she turns her head towards the doorway and takes in the young man intruding in her solitude. 

Tall enough to make an impression, with a character that commands awareness and respect. He’s maybe five years older than her and his eyes speak of a magnitude of intellect. There’s an unlit cigarette in his left hand and a box of matches in the other.

“I don’t know you.”

“Well, no time like the present to get acquainted, ehh?” His smile is crooked, brown eyes sparkling in amusement. It’s as if he’s laughing at her to laugh  _ with _ her and Rose finds it infinitely curious. He steps up beside her and offers her a hand, matchbox tucked against the side of his palm and thumb. “Howard Stark.”

Ah, one of Father’s guests, then. Something to do with engineering. A pioneer, she’s heard Father tell Mother.

“Rose Saxby,” she replies primly, nose in the air and she tries subtly stepping onto her tiptoes as they shake hands. 

She’s doing her best to be a young lady.

“Saxby, huh?” Mr. Stark doesn’t seem at all impressed, instead busying himself with having a smoke. Rose clears her throat, unimpressed with how he’s lighting up so close to her, without permission. Finally noticing her flat stare, he offers a charming smile, and gestures with the already lit ciggy, “You mind?”

“No, I don’t mind.”

It would hardly do to say otherwise, after all. Not when she’s trying to be as grown-up as possible.

“Want one?”

She contemplates it a moment, she really does, but then Rose remembers what Billy told her about first time smokers and how amateur they look with all the coughing and decides that she better not tonight. Besides, Julius would smell it on her as soon as he sees her.

“No, thank you, it’s awfully kind to offer.”

He hums, squinting as he studies Rose for a moment, his now empty hand – he’s placed the matches inside his pocket – tapping against the cold metal, right beside her arm. She debates the merits of pulling away, but thinks better of it under his scrutiny.

“Never had a smoke, huh?”

“I’ve never had much need for it.”

“Too young?”

It’s true, but it’s hardly something Rose likes reminding of, especially with how much effort she’s putting into her maturity lately. It’s not that she wants to be grown-up already, quite the contrary. It’s only that there is a certain amount of respect that comes with the age of cigarettes and pinned hair. All Rose wants is to stay in New York and have people take her seriously for a change.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never been stopped by a number before and I certainly won’t start now,” Rose tells Mr. Stark firmly, crossing her arms and putting her back to the city.

“Yeah, all twelve years of your life.”

“Fourteen, thank you. Nearly fifteen.”

He grins, as if this is all highly amusing to him, shakes his head and takes a long drag, “You gotta be careful, make sure to take it into your chest and not your mouth,” he tells her easily, sounding for all the world like he’s telling her how to poach an egg. He lets out a curl of smoke through his nose and mouth, turning to her and propping an elbow on the ledge. “Hold it for a few seconds and then you let it out.”

“Are you an expert, then?”

“I’ve been smoking since I was fourteen,” he shrugs, as if it explains everything. “And, I’m a genius.”

She ignores the second bit, Daddy’s told her that as well. It doesn’t say much good about him that he’s telling her as well.

“How old are you, anyway?” she asks instead, eyes tracing the flickering city lights.

“Seventeen.”

“Oh,” Rose is surprised, he’s younger than Billy and Daniel but holds himself as if the opposite were true. Funny young man, he is, and she knows he really is a genius or he wouldn’t be on her terrace at god only knows what hour. “That’s not very old at all.”

“Who wants to be old?”

Rose finds herself at a loss of words, so much to consider and not very much to conclude, except, “My father says you’re an engineer.”

“I’m so much more than that, kid,” he finishes his cigarette, then flicks it to the floor and toes it, mirroring her stance over the railing and looking out over the city with her. “I’m the future. Everything you’re looking at right now, I’m gonna make bigger and better. More durable.”

“I rather like how it is now,” she counters with a frown. “It’s unlike anything else in the world, so singular and full of life. It’s kind of… magical.”

“That’s very poetic,” he says it like it’s a compliment and an accusation all at once. “Sentimental. Dames’r always real sentimental. I’m more futuristic myself.”

“Very,” she corrects, almost absentmindedly. “Not real, very. And not dames, Mr. Stark, ladies.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees his eyes crinkle in a grin. “Sure thing, kid.”

Considering how this evening has gone so far, Rose decides that she likes Mr. Stark after all. Sure, he’s full of hot air like no one she’s ever met, and he’s not nearly as polished as Mathew Brenner, but he’s charismatic and treats her as if her words are legitimate and not just the babble of a child. “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Stark. Seventeen, futuristic genius, and impressive enough to earn my father’s esteem. What else is there to know?”

“Well, let’s not forget devilishly handsome, charming, and on my way to making millions,” Mr. Stark flashes another smile. “Not that you care about all of that.”

“Do you care about all that?” she only asks because she’s read enough of Mother’s novels to understand that intelligent men who don’t work for something they feel passionately about passionately despise working.

“’Course I do, I’m making my dreams come true here.”

“Sure, but you’re a scientist at heart, an inventor. Don’t you do all of that because you love it?”

He faces her fully now, brow furrowed, neither a denial nor an acknowledgement and doesn’t say anything for a full minute. “You never did tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why you’re out here.”

“Well, we’ll be leaving tomorrow,” it’s her turn to shrug; a habit Mother is fond of chastising her about. “It would be a waste not to enjoy the view while I’m here.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

In response, he pulls out a case – gold, thin, engraved – and pulls out another cigarette for himself before offering them to her, “Smoke?”

Rose hesitates a moment. Her hand, previously gripping the railing, is now brushing feather light over the small, neat, white spheres, and pulling back with uncertainty. She wants to, she really does, and he probably won’t laugh at her too much if she makes a fool of herself. Rose glances upwards, large, bright brown eyes between sweeping lashes, and she meets his amused gaze inquisitively.

“Well, kid?” He gives the case a little shake, brows raised.

Before she can contemplate it too much, she snags one, folding her fingers around it the way she’s observed so many women do on this very balcony. It feels silly, trying to be all grown-up and holding a cigarette in her nightgown, winter coat and bare feet. She gives a little laugh as he takes it, lighting a match and taking an exaggerated drag for show before passing it back to her.

“So… now I just,” Rose imitates taking a puff.

“Just take it into your chest,” he reminds her, starting on his own. She does. And then he’s trying not to laugh at her panicked, spluttering coughs. “Easy, kid, nice and slow. Take a breath and then another, draw it into your chest. And then let it all out.”

Her second draw is steadier, deeper, and she only coughs three times, face hot and mouth ashy. Her fourth is only a quick battle to keep her breathing even and by the seventh, Rose is quite finished with the experience.

Catching sight of the delicate watch face peeking from between tanned skin and fur coat, she drops what’s left of her lesson into the sterling ashtray – Mother has one in every room and on every balcony – behind them. Heading to bed would be in her best interest, as would a bottle of perfume at this point.

“I’m not very fond of the experience,” Rose says primly, rubbing her fingers against her lips to alleviate the peculiar tingling she assumes is completely in her mind. Billy never mentioned anything about it, so it simply must be her imagination, she decides as she heads inside.

He shrugs carelessly, dropping his smoldering stub to the ground and tucking empty hands into trouser pockets, “So what  _ do _ you like?”

“My new holiday dress, for one,” Rose says primly, and at his incredulous snort, she sniffs. She spent a month’s worth of Thursday evenings designing angles and matching cuts and materials to great results.

But it’s not what she’s been thinking about all night.

And for some reason, it’s a real clincher as to why, but when he’s looking at her with those eyes, so intelligent and challenging and arrogant, yet so convinced that there is more to her, as if he sees her – as if Howard Stark is able to sense that there is something so much bigger inside Rose Saxby that he’s set on discovering – and suddenly she wants to share her secrets with this older boy who thinks she’s mature enough to smoke his cigarettes.

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” he tells her haughtily, poised and certain of himself in a way seventeen-year-old boys never are.

Well, that is to say, Rose doesn’t actually  _ know _ many seventeen-year-old boys, but she’s got brains in her head. She can imagine well enough.

“Elizabeth Blackwell,” she admits sheepishly, fingers twisting in fur, her gaze set firmly on the city’s skyline. Then, because Rose has never met a challenge she hasn’t committed to wholeheartedly – she’s got a cigarette stub sitting on her mother’s second favorite ash-tray to prove it – she repeats the name, firmly, clearly, perhaps louder than she should. “Elizabeth Blackwell, the physician.”

For some reason, he’s infinitely amused by that, but whatever the reason is, Rose doesn’t feel very threatened by it. Instead, she returns his smirk with a grin of her own and it’s as if they understand each other, as if they share a common factor in the equations which represent them.

“Does your father know you want to be a medical champion, Miss Saxby?”

“Mr. Stark, my father doesn’t know a lot of things,” she nods towards the ground, his ashy stubs inky smears under the thick blanket of darkness. “Goodnight. I suggest you retire soon, if you plan to be at all awake for the trip upstate.”

He waves her off, unconcerned, “I don’t need much sleep.”

She smiles, shrugs – Mother isn’t here to reprimand her, after all – and turns back towards the house. “Suite yourself.”

As she climbs the grand staircase, feet shuffling lightly over thick carpeting, Rose decides that she’ll never forget tonight. Not ever, not for anything. She’ll go to her grave, just as in love with the winter night and the city skyline as she is at this moment. Tonight will be the night which marks the start of her journey from childhood to adulthood, for no particular reason beyond that she feels as if it should. And Rose wants to keep this moment like a photograph, frozen exactly as it is, a suspended event in history with little meaning beyond beauty and sentiment.

And even when Julius figures her out the next morning within seconds, she doesn’t regret any of it.

Well, she does regret getting caught. No point pretending otherwise.

Rose tells Howard Stark just that at dinner the next night, leaving Lindsey to guess at what they are laughing about while she brandishes her bruised, bloodied knuckles like they are medals of honour and not marks of shame, and Shaina tries her best not to be obvious as she flirts with Matthew Brenner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely one of the longer ones, so it's lucky I've had half of this written forever, huh? I'm gonna go curl into a ball and keep sleeping now. Lots of love to whoever makes it all the way here. You are a champion.


	5. Mirror, Mirror On the Wall

Howard became a constant in her life before much else did.

The only gentle thing about Howard was the whisper-soft touch of his hand as he went to take a steady, strong grip over whatever he set his mind to. He’s exactly like that with her heart, as well.

She’s hardly surprised by the turn of events. He’s young, he’s intrepid and he had this restless, charming energy about him that drew people in before he’d so much as said a word (which, considering what came out of his mouth once he got started, was very fortunate). It’s easy to love Howard’s quick wit, his constant wakefulness, his ability to get right to the heart of the matter and either build it up or tear it down. Howard’s real strengths, however, lay in who he was at the core of it all; a visionary. 

Not just any old visionary, either, but a genius one at that. 

Rose spent many an afternoon in his laboratory, drawing up design pitches for Saxby Couture, laboring through homework assignments or studying whatever medical texts and literary journals she managed to get her hands on while Howard tinkered with equipment, muttering equations to himself as chalk collected on the leg of his trousers and something nearby threatened to explode.

“Really, Howie,” Rose declared in frustration, mopping up what she could of the foam mess left behind from the fire extinguisher. “That’s the third time this week!”

“Fourth, actually,” he told her, distracted, searching through a pile of upended wrenches. “Where’s my welding torch gone?”

Rose could huff and chastise and throw pencils at her friend until the sun came up from the west but the truth was, she’d rather lose a hundred fashion magazines to Howard’s crazy inventions than be anywhere else in the world. 

She kept coming back to visit Howard in his little Williamsburg lab, letting adventure sweep them whichever way lady luck fancied. Sometimes they spent all day in separate corners of the room, not a word passing between the pair as they slaved over whatever project had taken root in their minds until Julius arrived to ferry her home for the night. On certain occasions, Howard enlisted her help, teaching her the mechanics of whatever masterful piece of engineering he was working with at the time, challenging Rose to discover a new passion and hobby. On some days, they spoke about their hopes and dreams and which movie star should stop seeing which politician, accomplishing almost nothing before Howard decided to take her dancing or to the movies before calling it quits.

It was on precisely the second kind of day that Rose realized Howard was a part of the very foundation upon which she stood. 

It’s hot outside and they had about four fans going in the wide room, but somehow it just wasn’t enough. She’d lost her shoes and fashionable little jacket some time ago and his sleeves were rolled up, tie nowhere in sight. May was always an adventure in the city, one day blowing hot and the next cold, and neither of them was terribly committed to anything they were working on as a result. 

“I was thinking of trying front bangs. Nothing fancy, just the elegant, wispy sort,” Rose told him, flipping through the latest issue of Vogue. “I’m no Claudette Colbert, but I’m hoping it’ll frame my face nicely. Besides, as the french say, tres chic.”

“Hmm,” Howard nodded, halfway buried beneath a behemoth piece of machinery he claimed would one day pass as a car. “Pass me the screwdriver, would you? The one with the flat head.”

She handed it over, “You’ve only got a handful of bolts left here, you know. My advice? Use sparingly.”

He slid out from under the car, frowning, and started counting screws. “Damn it, these aren’t thick enough.”

As Howard made his way towards a cluttered tabletop and began hunting down more nuts and bolts, she spied a couple more on the ground and added them to his pile before pulling herself back up on the table and opening her magazine.

“Anyway,  Abigail Seure came to school today with bangs and now I’m reconsidering the entire affair because the last thing I want is for her to think she’s got one up on me. Besides, I’d rather die a Vikings suicidal death than look anything like her.”

Howard laughed, attempting to balance his growing stock of bolts in one hand. “You wouldn’t ever be in danger of that, kid. She looks like a drowned rat on a good day.”

“That’s not true!" Rose balked, and then screwed up her mouth, considering "If it was, I think I’d dislike her less, I’m ashamed to admit. As it is, she’s always going to be more elegant and dainty than I could ever dream of being. Girls like her and Shaina and Connie Eisenhower, they all have delicate features and just the perfect height.”

Howard patted her on the back, and it's more of an afterthought really but it's the effort that counts, “Don’t sell yourself short, Rosie. Sure, the Shaina’s and Connie’s of the world are knock-out dames, but that don’t mean you should give up on that Claudette Colbert hair.”

She’s quiet and he got back under the car, banging away as she stared at Greta Garbo’s glamorous face and wondered what it would be like to feel like she belonged somewhere. 

The thing about being fifteen was that not only was her mental state constantly at odds with society, but so was her physical state. Rose was tall and gangly where most girls should be small and curved. There was about as much grace and elegance in her as there was rain in the Sahara desert and as much as it pained her to admit, it was rather a detestable thing. Once upon a time, Rose hadn’t cared one bit about the size of her waist or the length of her legs, but lately Fred Danvers and Lucy Gildstone have taken to calling her 'Beanstalk' and 'Gulliver,' and Mother’s seamstress had spent most of their appointment yesterday talking about the best techniques to conceal lanky limbs while sighing wistfully at Shaina. 

And every time she stepped foot into Saxby’s or opened a magazine, Rose caught sight of the latest dress design or swimsuit model and was reminded all over again of her shortcomings. Or rather, tallcomings, as it were.

“What’s up, Buttercup?”

Rose glanced up, surprised to find Howard right beside her, expression almost mulish.

“Mother’s just been a little persistent lately. We’ve begun planning my birthday party, you know. It’ll be quite the to-do, considering.”

“Your birthday is months away.”

“Events like these take time, Howie. And a Saxby birthday bash? That’s an entirely different creature. It’ll be a real beat-all.”

He studied her a moment longer and it dawned on Rose that Howard wasn’t mulish, just very poorly showing concern. It was such an unnerving revelation that she immediately went back to studying Garbo’s coiffed hair and glossy smile.

“Alright, what gives, Saxby? And don’t give me the runabout, you’ve been staring at Garbo’s mug for the better part of the hour when I know I’m easier on the eyes than some dolled up star’s glamour shot.”

“You are certifiable,” Rose shook her head, lips twisting upwards despite her best efforts.

“Look, I’ve got things to do here, so let’s have it,” Howard insisted, pulling himself up beside her.

Rose had never seen him so serious while away from his projects, and that’s probably what decided it for her. Studying the intensity in his dark gaze, all she really wanted to do is confide in him. Before she had even fully committed to the idea, she was talking.

“I just wonder sometimes, you know? What it’s like to be like them. One of those girls who are dainty and small and have to look upwards while holding a conversation with a man. I want to have nighttime shadow my face and the moon set me in a soft glow and…” she trailed off, lost in the allure of her imagination before thrusting the magazine across the room. “And instead I'm like an overgrown baby giraffe, stamping about and towering over my peers with no grace or poise whatsoever. I'm telling you, Howard, there's no point to living this way! It's an awful existence.”

“So let me get this straight,” Howard deadpanned after a beat, brows raised. “You wanna look like Shaina.”

“No," Rose stated firmly, and then grimaced with a shake of her head. "Yes! Well, okay, not really, I just want to fit in like her. And be fashionable like her. Maybe even have blonde hair like her. Because I spent all day yesterday at Mother’s designer friend’s house and I really think I’ve gone bananas, Howie. As if I’m not already the weird one. Now I’m also the girl that no matter what she wears, she’s trying to compensate for her height, and her looks, and her lanky frame. And on her own birthday, no less!”

“Well, to be frank, you are ridiculously tall, kid. How tall are you anyway? No, that’s not important.” He looked at her sideways, squinting, and nodded, “I’d say five feet and, what, hmm. Eight inches? Nine? No, eight, I’m saying eight.”

“This isn’t funny!” But she laughed despite herself and it ruined the conviction she was aiming for.

Howard grinned in response, “It’s hilarious, chin up, ehh?”

They settled after a bit and Rose sighed miserably.

“What am I going to do, Howie? I’m going to look like a starved troll at my own sweet sixteen.”

“What are you going to do,” he repeated. “What kind of nonsense question is that? So you stand out, so what? Any of those girls, those Abigails’ and Connies’ and even Shainas’ of the world, those are a dime a dozen, all little perfectly replicated drone of one another. And sure, they are pretty, I like ‘m just fine. But you? You’re different. Somebody looks at one of them and they think, hey, there’s another one. Somebody looks at you and the only thought in their head is, now that’s a woman. Girls like them follow fashion. You?” At this, Howard beams, “You are the fashion. So stop worrying about fitting in, kid. You weren’t made to fit in. You were meant to stand above the crowd and lead them where ya want ‘um.”

And just like that, her view on what she should be and what she is began to shift because maybe, just maybe, Rose got to define what was in vogue for her and what wasn’t, she got to be daring and original and elegant in her own way and maybe that was good. 

Maybe that was great.

After all, she’d seen Howard do it every day of his life. Never once had he blended into any crowd or done something because it was fashionable. No, Howard Stark  _ was  _ fashion.

She hugged him right then and there, smile so wide that her cheeks stung.

“You know, for a hard Williamsburg hothead, you sure are wonderful, Howie.”

“As if I didn’t know,” Howard smirked, patting her arm awkwardly.

Rose leaned back, large eyes shining with mischief, “A wonderful, wiz of a twit.”

And deep inside, she knew with all her heart that she’d be alright because Howard would always be a constant. At some point during all those days spent together, when she hadn’t even been looking, he had taken a gentle hold on her heart and inserted himself so firmly in her life that Rose would never shake him.

As he swatted at her arm and demanded she help him with his wreck of an automobile, Rose understood that she didn’t want to shake him.

And so, with mere weeks left to the school year and summer peaking through each new ray of sunshine, Rose dreamed of being her own stage, her own judge and jury and everything in between. She wanted to be a real lady, and accomplish great things, and most of all, she wanted to be noticed as her own person, standing above the crowd.

It only took meeting Bucky Barnes to bring it all crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this week has been a lot. There are so many people hurting. Here, in my little hometown of Chicago, we've been doing our part as best we can to raise our voices. All lives matter. Sending my love, as I support and listen and protest. Stay safe, friends.


End file.
